


A Study in Virric

by InMutualWeirdness



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Devils, Gaslamp Fantasy, Gen, Souls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMutualWeirdness/pseuds/InMutualWeirdness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead body was the least of their problems. In this city, he would get up and walk away eventually. This didn't mean that they would be safe, though.</p><p>"Welcome. Delicious Friend."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> BBC Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss.  
> Fallen London belongs to Failbetter Games.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a prisoner is attacked and an introduction is made

"Snuffer! Snuffer!"

In New Newgate, prisoners often woke to shouting. But today, John woke to screaming. He'd barely a moment to open his eyes before his cell door clanged open and he was rudely yanked out of his bed.

"Doctor Watson!" the gaoler barked, addressing him with the most respect she had ever deigned to use. "A prisoner's been injured."

John blinked groggily. He may have been conscious, but he could barely think straight. "Yes. So? Don't you have a doctor to deal with injuries?"

The Ill-Tempered Gaoler scowled. "Him? Ptah! That lily-livered greenhorn passed out at the sight of the victim." She marched off, pulling John with her. "Never you mind. You're coming anyway. We haven't the time or resources to deal with a dead inmate. Not when we're tracking down that beast."

After a thankfully brief walk--or for John, stumble--through the rocky corridors, they finally came across the victim. His hands covered his face and he let out raw screams of pain. Blood trickled from between his fingers, and John could see faint traces of unctuous smears beneath. It was all red and gold, red and gold. Red and gold.

John felt his skin itch. He ignored it. "What happened to him?”

The Ill-Tempered Gaoler scowled again, but failed to hide her fear entirely. “The Snuffer. It got him.”

John sighed. There wasn't much he could do about a Snuffer victim. "It's not my specialty, but I'll try my best." He knelt next to the now whimpering man. "Sir?" he said, gently. "Hold on. I'm here to help."

He spent at least two hours with the man, using copious amounts of tincture, bandages, and alcohol. The whole time John focused on his patient and his wounds. The crowd of prisoners who came to watch completely slipped his mind.

\-------

After the ordeal with the Snuffer victim was dealt with, the gaolers hauled him back to the work lines. What thanks for his labours. The Ill-Tempered Gaoler did promise a lessened sentence in return for his service, but who knew how much shorter his stay would be? New Newgate was infamous for the length of the inmates' detentions.

 _All in a day's work_ , he thought. Then he picked up his pickaxe and began swinging.

"Would you like to escape with me?"

The unexpected question stopped John short. "What?" He turned around to find the asker, who was chained immediately behind him.

The man scowled. "You heard me. And keep your voice down! The gaolers aren't deaf, though they may as well be."

John stared. Did he know this man from somewhere? Really, they'd only met now, tied together in a chain gang digging tunnels in prison. Hardly a place to meet trustworthy people. Still, the offer felt somewhat appealing. John had been pondering escape for some time. Short of convincing the guards that he truly didn't belong here, escape would be the only way out. But he didn't know what to make of this tall, intimidating stranger. The standard issue prison uniform sat on his shoulders like an ill-fitting costume. And nobody with such well-groomed hair could actually belong here.

"Right. Like I'd trust an escape offer," John replied, testily. "I wasn't born yesterday. You're probably some constable, trying to catch escapees with that ruse."

The man scoffed. "Really? You put too much stock in the constables. As if they'd be capable of such a complex scheme."

John did not have much of a reply to that. "How would we escape, anyway? You'd have to get off the stalactite and somehow cross the Unterzee without getting caught or dying."

"Or becoming a drownie. But there is a way," the man said. "No prison is inescapable."

John turned back to his pickaxe and began chipping away at the rocks. "Do tell," he said, in sarcastic skepticism.

"Simple. New Newgate is built on a stalactite. This means that it needs to get supplies from London. You've seen the dirigible making its daily delivery, I hope. Otherwise I would second guess taking you along."

John put down the pickaxe again. "Hang on, when did I say I was coming along?"

The man stared at him. "Of course you're coming along. You want to get out, and you deserve to be out."

John's planned retorts and objections fell apart. "What?"

"Most of the people who end up here are thieves," the man said. "Lowly crooks or high stakes thieves. They band together during meal times, in their little gangs. But you've stayed out and away. And you seem to believe the Constables are capable and good people--not entirely sure why, but that's very obviously a pedestrian citizen's opinion. But you're no ordinary civilian. Take, for example, your habit of standing at parade rest in the presence of gaolers. Bad idea by the way; mustn't let them get swelled heads. Or your impressive display of medical knowledge earlier with the Snuffer victim. But you’re not just a doctor. Look at how you hold your pickaxe--your hands are used to swinging, but not an axe. A sword. And your skin..." Here the man frowned. "Most peculiar, the way it is tinted. Most Neathy persons are homogenous in skin tone, with little variance. But you have odd patches of darkened skin. Pinker skin, like those who've been in Hell. An army doctor then, who went on that doomed invasion of Hell and was forced onto the streets after his return. Then arrested for loitering and not having a residence."

John stared. "How...?"

"I told you already. Observation."

If John hadn't known the man before, he certainly wanted to now. He was the most singular figure John had met in a long while. "That was brilliant," he said. "Absolutely brilliant."

The man arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Really?"

"Of course! What is your escape plan? I'd gladly go along with it."

The man blinked, squinting in confusion for a moment. "That's the first time someone's ever said yes."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "Really? But why? Don't they want to get out?"

The man frowned. "It's not that they don't want to get out. It's that they...dislike me." This admission seemed to physically pain him. He went back to his haughty air almost immediately, though. "And they do it in such colourful language! My god, the ruffians in this place. I am glad that I've got you as an accomplice instead."

"Yes. Well." John felt surprisingly pleased by that. "About that plan of yours, what exactly does it entail?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, kids, an 1890s Sherlock AU is okay when London has been buried miles below the surface of the Earth!
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I'm typing this up technically within the time limit, so I should be in time for the challenge, but talk about the skin of my teeth, man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our two heroes escape from the dreaded prison and finally arrive in the City.

John stared out the window at the dirigible flying slowly toward them. Halfway on the sill, he had all too good a view of the deep drop below to the Unterzee. Something that wasn't blue moved under the waves. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, heart pounding.

His partner in crime glowered at him. "Now would be a very inconvenient time to have second thoughts. We've already broken the bars. Simply getting you into the high priority cells with that brawl was a risk. If we're discovered now, there will be no chance of leaving this place."

"You are awful at encouragement." Ah well. It gave him incentive, to say the least. The leap wasn't that far. The dirigible kept moving closer, until it eclipsed the Zee. He could see a few handholds now. Maybe if he aimed just so...

He hit the canvas balloon with a springy thump, hands latching on to the rigging. Not even a moment later, the keen-eyed man landed next to him. For a few terrifying moments, he scrabbled for purchase on the slick fabric, before John grabbed him.

They felt the dirigible undock, moving steadily and surely away from the stalactite and the prison.

"I knew you would make a good accomplice," the man said, as the dirigible began its slow journey back to London.

John was caught between skeptical recollections of their conversation earlier today, and unadulterated cheer. He was free. Perhaps he was still dressed in prison rags, but now he could look up and see the cavern roof, shining with glim and false stars.

He laughed.

"What's so funny?" the man asked.

John tilted his head in London's general direction, his arms occupied with holding onto the dirigible. "This. Everything!" Another laugh. "I'm hitching a ride on a dirigible across the Unterzee, clinging on for dear life with a man whom I just met this morning. I don't even know your name!"

Neathy tradition held that titles were more importance than names, but a situation like this fell well within the parameters for a last name basis. The keen-eyed man smiled. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson. Nice to meet you." He looked down at the water below. "Forgive me for not shaking hands, but..."

A wicked grin split his face. "Quite all right, Watson. Quite all right."

\-------

They spent the duration of the ride chatting amicably about many things. Mostly to keep themselves from looking down at whatever horrors swam below. But also because...well. Sherlock was such fascinating company. When something low and mournful whistled up at them from below, he launched into a discussion about Zee monsters and anatomy. He spoke of his library, and some of the more risky texts he owned. It was all just surprise after surprise.

"A Benthic graduate who hates cricket?" John exclaimed.

Sherlock scowled. "I could pitch well, but... it was boring to me. Why does everybody make such a big deal out of that?"

"It's Benthic, that's why! Cricket is their--their pride and joy!"

He scoffed. "Yes. A dull sport. Not, perhaps, their revolutionary theories and discoveries. Or their brilliant labs--most modern thing in this city, they are!"

John frowned in thought. "I suppose you're right. But still! That's highly unusual."

"Benthic College and its alumni are all unusual. Devils, urchins, criminals, Revolutionaries--all are welcome there, as students or faculty." John wondered what group Sherlock belonged to. "I used to attend lectures with the Erudite Deviless. She taught a class on souls."

Suddenly, Sherlock turned and leaned unnervingly far back. "The city! We're almost there."

Now John craned his neck for a look, taking care to keep a firm grip on the ropes. It wouldn't do to get this close to the city, only to fall and be eaten or turned into a drownie.

There. The southern half of the city loomed up, the spires of the Bazaar towering well above the rest of the buildings. He could see, very faintly, the red glow of the symbols scrawled on its skin (why not surface? He couldn't say.) His eyes stung mildly.

It suddenly occurred to him that, once he got to the city, he had nowhere to go. But before he could say anything, Sherlock said, "We're getting off at Ladybones."

"Ladybones? Why there?" John didn't often go that way. It was covered with Constables. Which was okay if you were a well behaved citizen, but not if you were a homeless soldier. And there was always the matter of the Brass Embassy. His skin prickled at the thought of all the Devils which would be there too.

"That's where I live," Sherlock explained. "You'll stay with me until we get our bearings. Don't worry about getting down. Ladybones may not have buildings as tall as St. Fiacre's, but I know how to get off from here. No harder than leaping onto a dirigible."

John grinned involuntarily. "That's supposing I can accomplish that twice."

"Don't be foolish. I'm sure you can."

The dirigible flew in over the city, past the Bazaar, and up northwest toward Ladybones. Sherlock pointed out their landing point: Hangman's Arch. It was admirably tall, enough for the two of them to jump on safely.

They dismounted their unwitting ride, climbing down the arch to the ground below. One of the hanged men complained about noisy trespassers.

\-------

It occurred to John that a street full of constables would be a bad place to flee to after escaping prison. But it didn't occur to him until they had walked quite a ways. By which point people had begun to stare.

"Erm," he said, looking around to make sure they weren't being followed, "are you sure Spite wouldn't be a better place to go?"

"Why do you ask? I know this city, I know where we're going."

"Well...We're still in prison attire." And it was truly awful clothing. Neathy temperature didn't vary much, but the damp was constant, and the shabby rags that passed for a shirt and pants let every scrap of cold come and burrow into their bones.

"They know me here. You should not worry."

A man in blue rounded the corner. John cursed his awful luck. But Sherlock kept walking. If anything, he picked up his pace.

"What are you doing? He's a constable!"

"John, trust me. I was born in this city. I know how it works."

John tried to say that he was just as Neathy as Sherlock, but the Grey-haired Constable was swiftly approaching. So John focused on not looking suspicious. Generally, he was good at that. But his friend here...with his distinct manner and dress, a constable would have to be blind to not recognize him, regardless of Sherlock's opinions of their general competence. Indeed, the man's eyes were already narrowing, his gait lengthening.

"Christ, Sherlock. Back again?" His hand went up to clutch at his temples. Instead of suspicion and hostility, the constable spoke with resignation. "I thought you were in New Newgate."

"You said it yourself. I was." Now that John realized they were in no danger of being arrested, he began to see the humour of the situation. "As you can see, I have returned."

"Right. Okay." The Grey-Haired Constable took a deep breath, as if in preparation for some great task. "Listen, if you're here, we might as well make use of you."

"A case?" The veneer of sarcasm fell away for a moment of genuine interest. John was intrigued as well. His jailbird partner, a consulting detective? Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. There were plenty of potential hires loitering near Ladybones Road, and the uncareful or unskilled could easily find themselves falsely accused and detained.

"A murder."

"Murder?" Sherlock scoffed, with some measure of disdain. "Why would this count as a case? Just ask the fool once they wake up. Surely you could handle this without my help."

The constable frowned. "Sherlock, you can't speak like that. And he hasn't woken up yet. Besides, you could hardly call him a fool when he's an MP's son."

Sherlock grew intrigued. "A government official's son? Interesting. Or at least promising. I'd need to look at the body, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded. "Yes. Of course. But not now." He crossed his arms. "Now you need to go home and change into respectable clothing."

"As if I didn't know. Good day, Inspector."

Lestrade tipped his hat briefly. "Good day, then." He went on his way, barely giving them a second glance.

Sherlock walked with a much happier gait now. "A case! And a murder at that! How delightfully rare those are."

John, still muddling over how they managed to go past a constable without being thrown back in prison, nodded absently. "Yes, how--wait, what?"

"This'll become completely dull once the victim's woken up, and of course they're going to wait on a verdict until he has, but that's no matter." A left at a costermonger's cart and off a few more blocks.

"A man died! And you're excited?"

"It's not as if he's not coming back. I've a chance to do something now!" Before he could explain to Sherlock the gaping divide between death and being killed, they arrived at the flat. Sherlock knocked thrice on the door, before a Kindhearted Widow opened it.

"Sherlock! You're back!" As frail as she may have looked, she embraced the man with a surprising ferocity. "I was so worried. You must stop getting yourself into jail! And did the Grey-Haired Constable see you yet? He sent a letter here not twenty minutes ago."

Sherlock smiled. "I shall try. And yes, I've met him. Gotten a case now. That should keep me out for a while."

She smiled warmly. "What wonderful news, dearie." And then she noticed John standing there. "Oh, hello there. How rude of me. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady. And you are?"

He reached out and shook her hand. "John Watson. Nice to meet you."

"You're his accomplice then, aren't you?" she asked. "Well done with your escape. Now come in before a constable sees you!" She ushered them in, practically pushing John through the door. "They may let Sherlock go, but they're more suspicious of the company he keeps."

"Surely they don't mean you, madam," John said.

She laughed. "How kind of you! I like him, Sherlock."

He smiled, with filial warmth. "That's good. Because he'll be staying here."

"Only temporarily!" John said, hastily. He'd barely made it into the foyer, after all. Hardly time to declare an intent to stay. "I will not intrude on your hospitality."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Oh, don't worry. Stay as long as you'd like. I'd been looking for another lodger, anyway, so you're welcome to move in if you want. Now, do you want tea?"

She went off to her kitchen. Sherlock gestured toward the stairs. "Come," he said, with what sounded like approval. Had he passed a test of sorts? "You shouldn't stand around in those rags. Not a gentleman such as yourself."

\------

For all John's insistence on not staying, he liked the flat very much. It was well furnished, cheery, and lived in. The parlour especially, with its armchairs (enough for two, he noted) and fireplace and rugs. On the mantelpiece, he saw a skull. One that he swiftly forgot about when Sherlock directed his attention away.

"So," he said, clapping his hands together. "This is where I live. I hope you'll find it satisfactory."

"It's very nice," John replied. Perhaps lodging here wouldn't be an awful idea. If he paid rent, it wouldn't be mooching. Of course, he'd have to get a job first. Perhaps his old medical school, near Watchmaker's Hill?

The noise of drawers and fabric caught his attention. "Here," Sherlock said, tossing him a set of clothes from the doorway of his room. "Until you can buy some of your own, you may borrow from me."

"Too kind, you are."

John spied a tabby outside the window. "Quite a few strays around here, aren't there?"

Sherlock leapt to his feet and ran to the window. "Where? Where is it?"

"Erm, over there, by the window across the street." Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock had shoved him aside and flung the window wide.

"Hey, you! That tabby tom, yes!" He practically shook his fist at it. "Leave us be! How many times must I tell you so?"

The cat lifted its tail up, haughtily. "We? Is that someone else in the window with you?"

"John Watson, and that is none of your business. Leave us alone!"

By now, people in the street were staring. But the cat didn't do them any favours by continuing to lounge on the other side of the street. "Your brother pays so well, though," it said, purring at the thought. "So many delicious secrets. Are you sure he doesn't have feline blood in him somewhere?"

"You know that is anatomically impossible," Sherlock replied. "Gah. It's not worth the effort bothering with you." He slammed the window shut with aggravated force.

"What was that?" John asked, more than a little bewildered.

"A cat. Sent by my brother." He stalked away from the window, with remarkably catty spite. "He does nothing else but meddle in my affairs. Damn him."

"Your brother commands the cats of London?"

Sherlock shuddered. "A terrifying prospect. But thankfully, impossible. Not even the Duchess can do that," he replied. "They're cats, after all. It would be like asking a devil to hand back your soul." Now, go get changed. We've got a body to examine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, now that I've gotten it into the challenge collection, I can focus on writing longer chapters. Of course, the updates will be rarer, but I think longer chapters are better.
> 
> So, because I didn't mention it in the previous note, I'll start talking about Fallen London here! It's a super cool browser-based RPG that's part Victorian AU (where everyone's accepting enough that race, sexuality, and gender don't matter), part cosmic horror, and part choose-your-own adventure novel. There's cool art and very cool words. I seriously recommend checking it out!
> 
> http://www.fallenlondon.storynexus.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a body is seen and a honey den visited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note to previous readers: I've altered the nature of the crime. The earlier version of chapter two wasn't entirely canonical and made the rest of the plot illogical. Lestrade's conversation is the only bit really changed, so reread that if you don't want to see the whole chapter.

Out the door they went, off to wherever the body was. Now that he drew less attention, John felt more comfortable walking through the streets. They set about at a brisk pace, past the various houses and shops. People nodded in polite greeting as they passed. It felt like a proper outing, a luxury that he had not had for a while. Granted, most outings didn’t involve dead bodies at the end, but that was a minor quibble.

Then he remembered that the victim had been murdered.

“Erm, so, do you know what happened to the poor fellow?” he asked, unsure how to broach the topic.

“No.” Their shoes clicked pleasantly on the cobblestones. “I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.”

The silence that fell was decidedly less companionable. “So, do you do this often? Taking cases?”

The look he received was also very not companionable. “I am a consulting detective. Of course I take cases. Granted, they’re not always from the constables--awfully proud they are, and even if they need the help most of the time, most of the cases aren’t worth my attention.”

A tad impersonal for John's taste. He clenched his fist, trying to refrain from starting an argument. He was, for the time being, stuck with this man. "I suppose they don't normally die at someone else's hand," John said, stiffly. "That would certainly be worth your attention."

Before Sherlock could say anything in reply, the Grey-haired Constable came over. "There you are," he said. "I've been waiting." He gestured impatiently down the street. "The body's this way." He lead them the rest of the way to the scene.

A whole section of road had been blocked off, causing a crush of cabs and carts. Angry drivers yelled at each other to get out of the way. Constables yelled back, trying to create a semblance of order. John may have seen a pickpocket or two in the crowd, boldly taking advantage of the confusion.

Off to the side, slumped against a brick wall, was the body. A few constables stood nearby, obstructing John's view. For the moment, he was glad of it. "When did you find the body?" Sherlock asked.

"This morning, actually. Rather good timing that I found you when I did." Obviously, there was no mention of where they'd been beforehand. "He's the son of the Boisterous Parliamentarian. Quite a shame, really. He was going to be quite the statesman."

Sherlock made a distracted hum, to show that he was listening. He picked up the pace as he neared the body. Then he tensed when he saw who stood nearby.

"Donovan. Good day to you." Stiff and cold, to the point that John felt tempted to check if Sherlock hadn't turned to stone. He looked imperiously at the lady who headed the investigation. "I thought you told me that I would be in charge of this, Lestrade."

The famous Implacable Detective stared him down in return. "The Inspector promised nothing," she said, firmly. "You are a consultant. Not an authorized detective."

"I took all the same courses you did, Donovan." That tone drew stares, none of them kind. Call John old fashioned, but ladies were not supposed to be treated that way.

"Perhaps we could focus on the poor man here?" A hesitant suggestion, as he wasn't entirely allowed to be making any decisions over how the investigations should've proceeded. But it got Sherlock to back down.

The Implacable Detective (whose name was apparently Donovan), nodded in agreement. "It would be good to cooperate now. Especially on such a case. We haven't gleaned much from the body itself. It seems healthy, from what we can see."

"You can see shockingly little."

"I have, however," she said firmly, "found some things from the items on his person. He's been frequenting honey dens." She presented a few coins, sticky with residue. "We'll need to go interview nearby den owners to corroborate this."

Sherlock sighed. "Did you need to see his wallet for that? There's evidence all over his clothing. He reeks of it."

John couldn't catch a whiff of the supposedly obvious smell. He was familiar with prisoner's honey, having used it to numb pain when there was no laudanum. But he'd seen proof of the man's skill, and if two brilliant minds were in agreement (particularly these two), he'd not argue.

The Implacable Detective crossed her arms. "Unless you've something new to say, I'd suggest you not waste your breath."

"I've plenty new to say," Sherlock retorted, striding up to the body. "For one thing, he's not been as dear of a son as the press so claimed."

The Implacable Detective looked unimpressed. "And do you have anything to substantiate this claim?"

"Even though you've been holding the wallet, you've certainly not been looking at it closely enough. Count the echoes."

John peered at the wallet, which was almost bristling with banknotes.

"I'll admit that's more money than most carry around on their person, but I don't see what this has to do with anything. He's a rich, foolish young man. Plenty of them make such naive decisions."

"You're missing obvious questions! Why carry so much money around?"

"He has a wealthy, powerful father who adores him. This kind of pocket money is normal for him. And he's at liberty to carry it on his person. He's safer than most in these streets."

There was a deep bitterness in her voice, one that gave Sherlock pause. But only for a moment. "If his wealthy father loves him so much as he claims, then I hardly see a need for him to carry counterfeit currency."

The Implacable Detective stared at him, then at the bills. "There is no way you can tell by plain sight alone!" she protested. "That's as groundless an assumption as you often accuse me of making!"

Sherlock seemed on the verge of yawning. "It's a matter of knowing where to look. It's not like the Masters would print money on this common material. Not when Mr. Pages and Mr. Veils have anything to say about it."

The Implacable Detective looked at the bills once more, before Lestrade spoke up. "Take the bills in for analysis," he ordered. "Then we'll need to go speak to the Boisterous Parliamentarian. For a detailed testimony." The Implacable Detective scowled for a moment, but complied.

Sherlock may have smirked a little in triumph. "Come, John. We have honey dens to investigate."

"Won't you let me drive you there?" Lestrade asked.

"In your Black Maria? No thank you. You have other places to be. Like with Donovan." He left the scene and went back to the crush of traffic just down the road, which had thinned out a bit.

The two inspectors looked at John. "I don't believe we've met?" The Implacable Detective said, much less acrimonious now. "You may call me Donovan. You already know my name, after all. No point in using titles."

John nodded. "I am John. A pleasure to meet you, ma'am." They shook hands firmly.

"I've no idea how you can put up with that man," Donovan said. "So arrogant, he is. Genius or not, he has no right to be this rude."

"Do we have much choice, with him?" Lestrade asked. "He gets the job done."

"That doesn't excuse his behavior." She turned to John. "How did you fall in with him? You don't seem the kind for disreputable company."

Lestrade gave him a look. John ignored him. "He helped me. Opened his home to me. He has a right to ask me for assistance in turn."

Both inspectors looked incredibly surprised. "Took you in? Sherlock Holmes took you in?"

John wished they would stop asking. "Not for long, mind. But yes. Most charitably."

Lestrade became thoughtful. "How strange. I've not heard of him doing anything like this before."

Before he endured more of this discussion, John heard Sherlock calling him over. "I've found a cab!" He bid the inspectors good day and departed with his friend.

\--------

Veilgarden wasn't far away. Respectable houses gave way to pubs and shabby theatres, but all brightly lit. When they disembarked the cab, they could hear strings of song coming from an open window. A lady in red stockings waved at them, grinning salaciously.

John had never really gone to a honey den before. Their airs were always thick, sodden with heavy sweetness. It made it harder to think, perhaps. But drinking had been his solace instead. Sherlock strolled in as if it were a post office. As John coughed and gagged a little on the heady scents, the detective looked around even sharper than he did outside. Nary a flinch crossed his face as he surveyed the spacious room with its candles, placed alarmingly close to decorative drapery, and the many futons, some occupied by drowsing clientele. A few attendants worked their way around the room, carrying trays with honey jars and bottles of wine. One lady took some drops of honey and faded away into her dream. John watched with some fascination.

A hazy eyed woman with a painted face noticed them and walked over. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said. "What may we do for you?"

"We're not here to use the facilities," Sherlock said. "What we need is the guest list."

The woman's eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare. "We do not disclose the names of our clients," she said, icily.

"It's not for idle rumour-gathering, miss," Sherlock said. "There's been a death. Please, tell us if the son of the Boisterous Parliamentarian frequented your establishment."

From indulgent, to wary, and now to fearful. "Please, sirs, don't close me down. Whatever happened, I had nothing to do with it!"

A few of the returned dreamers stirred restlessly, or looked at them with bleary confusion. They'd need to tread carefully. "We never meant to imply blame, madam," John said, quickly. "All we want is the truth."

Sherlock gave him a curious look. If he tried, he could read some measure of approval in it. "If you don't wish to tell me anything, then we will leave," the detective promised. "But if this den has anything to do with the death, who knows what will happen. Perhaps the killer may strike here again?"

The lady turned whiter than silk. "I'll tell you," she said. "Yes. He did come here, and often. We tried, tried to keep him out after a while, but there's only so much you can do with a customer. I--"

There was a choked cry, and then a thump. An attendant had dropped a tray and ran off. John tried to look at their face, but they were gone before he could see. 

"Maybe you should check my honey? Or my supplier. That I would gladly pay for. But don't breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear? Anyone!"

She thumped her fist on her chest. Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve and said, "Thank you madam. Now if you please, I'd like to speak to your employee?"

She nodded, red-faced and breathing heavily. "Good day, gentlemen. Pray don't come back."

John ripped his sleeve out of Sherlock's grasp. He didn't need prompting to apologize and leave hastily.

The chilled, clear air of the outdoors was a refreshing relief from the musk. Once outside, they walked around the building toward the back, where they found the attendant, weeping.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked. "Are you all right, lad?"

The lad sniffled and wiped away some tears. "Forgive me, sir," he said, falling back on professional self-effacement, "but I am not a man. Nor a lady."

Sherlock nodded. "My apologies. Are you all right?"

The person nodded. "Well. I will be shortly, in any case. Thank you for your concern."

Sherlock reached in his pocket and offered them a handkerchief. They took it with gratitude. "You cared deeply for that man, didn't you?"

They nodded. "I knew something was wrong. One day he came and he could not remember my name. He used my old one." They closed their eyes in sorrow. "I told the management to lend assistance. But they did nothing." The young adult closed their fist tightly around the handkerchief. "Not a week later and he is dead. I fear for him. I fear deeply. Whatever felled him... doesn't seem like something he'd wake up from."

John felt something cold on the back of his neck. Perhaps it was a small breeze of some sort? Sherlock pressed his lips together, before mumbling something indistinct. "I see. Thank you for your time..."

The sentence trailed off, with a blank at the end. "Call me Morgan," they said.

"Thank you for your time, Morgan." John thought that they'd leave it there, but then Sherlock continued. "When I find answers, I will let you know."

Morgan's eyes, still red-streaked from crying, flew wide. "Thank you," they whispered. "That would be so kind."


End file.
